


The Following Night

by EeveebethFejvu



Category: Vampyr (Video Game)
Genre: Aftercare, Breakfast, Doctors Roleplaying as Doctors, Dom/sub Undertones, Edgar Swansea's Immortal Fetish, Implied Sexual Content, Jonathan Reid's Hand Fetish, Light Masochism, M/M, Morning After
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:14:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29405367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EeveebethFejvu/pseuds/EeveebethFejvu
Summary: “I’m sorry to have to inform you of this, doctor,” Jonathan murmurs, “but I’m afraid I must diagnosis you with acute blood loss anemia.”
Relationships: Jonathan Reid/Edgar Swansea
Comments: 9
Kudos: 18





	The Following Night

Jonathan has just flipped the bacon frying in the skillet when his ears pick up on the creak of old floorboards from the story above. He grows still, fork poised in the air, listening attentively to the subsequent thump of unsteady footsteps descending the staircase and moving down the hallway outside. When the sound of shuffling house slippers comes to a sudden halt in the doorway behind him, Jonathan feels his lips curl into a smile.

The kitchen he has commandeered is pleasantly snug. The space is warm with the heat of the stove and oven, the air heavy with the savory scents of sizzling pork, freshly baked beans, and fried eggs. The townhouse, a typical specimen of the district, is older and unrenovated, and so the room is softly lit by the yellow glow of several oil lamps. Thick, dark-colored curtains cover the kitchen’s solitary window, obstructing its unremarkable view of yet another barren East End courtyard.

Between the gathering twilight, London’s customary fog, and the steady downpour outside, Jonathan wouldn’t have had to worry about exposing himself to any sunlight, but he’d left the curtains closed anyway, just as he’d found them. There is a coziness about this kitchen, a luxurious ambiance of safety and contentment, that Jonathan hasn’t experienced in an unnameable number of years — not during the war, certainly not since his strange rebirth — and he doesn’t want to do anything that might destroy this delicate sensation. As he shifts the thick slices of bacon around the heated skillet, Jonathan wonders if he’s ever felt quite this way before, so at peace with himself and the world. He can’t be sure that he has.

When no other sounds from behind him are forthcoming, Jonathan lowers his fork and turns. He feels the smile on his face grow terribly fond at the sight that greets him.

Edgar stands in the doorway, his arms crossed for warmth and his shoulders hunched beneath a fine but well-worn dressing gown. To Jonathan’s amusement, the expression on his face is one of acute perplexity and surprise. Edgar’s eyes are wide behind his thin-framed glasses and his lips are parted in soundless disbelief.

For a man who seems, from Jonathan’s perspective, to exist in perpetual motion — gesturing with his hands, rocking on his heels, fidgeting with the items on his desk — Edgar’s current stillness is a marked departure from his usual appearance. But so too is the unkempt nature of his normally slicked-back hair, the unshaved stubble along his cheeks and jaw, and, most of all, the livid bruises — mottled yellow and puce, stretching down from the side of his neck past the base of his throat — clearly visible in the v-shaped gap left open by his robe.

Edgar Swansea looks thoroughly, scandalously debauched.

It is, Jonathan muses, a good look on him indeed.

“Good evening, Edgar,” Jonathan greets him, not bothering to temper the low purr of satisfaction that escapes with his words. A surge of delight wells up inside him as Edgar starts in surprise. He can sense the man’s heartbeat — already fluttering too quickly in his half-bared chest — pick up its pace at the sound of Jonathan’s voice. “Did you sleep well?”

“I…” Edgar begins, then pauses, clearly still bewildered. He blinks a few times and, after a moment, seems to regain his voice. “Yes, I — Good evening, Jonathan — I did sleep… that is…” He trails off, looking impossibly lost. Jonathan watches Edgar’s gaze shift from Jonathan himself down to the stove, then over to the counter, where a large plate is already piled with beans and eggs, sausages, and fried tomato slices. “What are you doing?”

“Cooking,” Jonathan replies. With a sly grin, he adds, “I thought that was rather obvious.”

He turns back to check the bacon, tilting one slice on its side with his fork and inhaling a heady whiff of bubbling grease and salted meat. Despite countless memories that assure him of its certain-to-be-pleasing taste, Jonathan feels no desire to partake himself. Instead, he experiences an immediate counter-instinct, a strong impulse to avoid, that dries up any saliva that might have been gathering in his mouth. At least the scent of regular food has remained agreeable to him, Jonathan reflects wryly as he turns off the stove’s burner.

The kitchen floorboards creak as Edgar comes to stand next to him, arms still crossed over his chest. Jonathan has only a moment to observe his face — and to note the unhealthy pallor of his skin — before Edgar glances up at him and says, with an expression of grave concern, “You _do_ know that you won’t be able to eat any of this, yes?”

Jonathan chuckles, a low rumble of amusement. “I didn’t fix it for me.” So close, he can clearly hear the hitch in Edgar’s breath and the off-kilter tattoo of his frantic heart. He leans in, then, to murmur in the man’s ear. “And even if I could, I wouldn’t need to. I am — as you yourself so ensured this morning — _already well satiated_.”

A visible shudder runs through Edgar’s frame. “My dear Jonathan,” he groans.

And Edgar’s hand is suddenly on Jonathan’s bare arm, turning him away from the stove to face Edgar fully. His other hand grasps the soft fabric of Jonathan’s undershirt, and Jonathan allows Edgar to drag him down, bending his head to better match the man’s shorter stature. Readily, he submits to the hungry press of Edgar’s lips against his own.

The first few kisses are brief and flighty. Jonathan tries to remember how they’d made this work the night before, to regain the easy movement they’d perfected in the long, dark hours before dawn. When Edgar sighs in relief against his lips, everything seems to fall into place, and the next kisses between them are longer, deeper, more confident and self-assured. Jonathan feels the bristles of Edgar’s mustache press against his own — a surprisingly galvanic sensation — and feels the hand on his arm drift up to cup the back of his neck. The slide of Edgar’s fingers along his skin is particularly nice, and a deep growl of appreciation rises up from Jonathan’s throat, eliciting a moan from his partner in response.

The cantering beat of Edgar’s heart soon grows too loud in Jonathan’s ears, however. Dragging his lips away for but a moment — much to Edgar’s audible displeasure — Jonathan wraps one arm around the man’s waist and pulls him in, holding him securely against his own body. So close, Jonathan can feel the knot of the belt of Edgar’s dressing gown pressing into the buttons of his own unseemly-wrinkled trousers, and the sensation is more than a little arousing. But as he changes the tilt of his head and dives back in for one more voracious kiss, Jonathan feels Edgar’s body begin to tremble in his grasp — not in pain or in fear, but in physical weakness born of pure, fatigued exhaustion.

Jonathan allows Edgar to bring the kiss to its conclusion, to slowly pull his lips away with a low, dismal moan as he sags into Jonathan’s steadying embrace. With both subjective and clinical scrutiny, he observes the symptoms Edgar is displaying: his panting gasps, the frantic pulse within his jugular veins, the dazed sheen in his eyes. Jonathan finds himself equally pleased and chastened by the sight.

Perhaps he should have restrained himself from giving in to such passion before Edgar had a chance to regain his strength.

“I’m sorry to have to inform you of this, doctor,” Jonathan murmurs, “but I’m afraid I must diagnosis you with acute blood loss anemia.”

Edgar gives a sharp, breathy laugh. “Is that your professional opinion, then?” When Jonathan hums his affirmation, Edgar leans his head against Jonathan’s shoulder and asks, cheekily, “What would you prescribe to combat this affliction, Dr. Reid?”

“A hearty meal, for a start.” Keeping a supportive arm around the man’s back, Jonathan guides Edgar over to his own kitchen table, pulling out a chair and offering it with a genteel flourish. When Edgar sits, he does so slowly, wincing as he settles awkwardly on the hard seat. “After that,” Jonathan continues, “I would recommend a tonic of ferrous tartrate and, preferably, a day or two of bed rest. Though I suppose that last one is out of the question.”

“Unfortunately,” Edgar laments. Jonathan can feel the weight of Edgar’s gaze on his back as he returns to the stove, pulls the skillet off the burner, and adds the bacon to the already-full plate. “I’ve a meeting scheduled with Dr. Tippets to discuss one of his long-term outpatients, and we’ll need to check in on that trauma case from yesterday. See if Dr. Strickland agrees she’ll need a second operation.” Edgar sighs unhappily, adjusting his position. “Not to mention the financial statements piling up on my desk, which of course all require my immediate attention…”

Jonathan grabs an orange from Edgar’s paltry selection of slightly-overripe fruit, all jumbled together in a bowl on the counter. “Business can wait,” Jonathan insists, understanding but firm. “At least until after breakfast.” He tucks the orange in a vacancy between the eggs and beans and brings the plate over to the table, setting it down in front of Edgar.

“And what a breakfast this is!” Edgar exclaims, his good nature returning as his eyes take in the simple but extravagant spread. Though tired, the man’s expression is one of genuine gratitude. Jonathan smiles to himself, pleased with his own initiative and resourcefulness. “Where on Earth did you learn to cook? Not at home, surely.”

Jonathan chuckles. “I doubt our butler would have appreciated my incursion into his culinary _sanctum sanctorum._ ” He passes Edgar a set of cutlery he’d discovered earlier in a drawer, then returns to the counter. “No, I’m afraid I only know the basics, and most of that I picked up over the last few years at the front. Even officers and field surgeons were expected to prepare their own rations from time to time.”

“Surgeon, scholar, soldier, _and_ chef,” Edgar notes. “Impressive.” He gazes coyly at Jonathan over the top of his glasses. “I must say, Dr. Reid, you’re quite the catch.”

“It is a shame, then,” Jonathan declares, leaning back against the counter, “that I can no longer in good conscience claim the title of eligible bachelor.”

Though spoken in lighthearted jest, Jonathan means what he says, and he waits with reticent anticipation for Edgar’s reaction. He watches the jocular expression on the man’s face drop before a faint flush sweeps across his pallid cheeks and his countenance grows fond. The gleam in his hazel eyes is blatantly affectionate.

Jonathan matches the warmth of Edgar’s smile with one of his own. Certain now that his message was received, he changes the subject, gesturing toward the stove. “Do you prefer tea or coffee at this time of night? I found tins of both in your cabinets.”

“Tea, if that’s alright,” Edgar says, massaging the bare skin over his fluttering heart. “I’m afraid coffee might be a bit too much with this transient tachycardia.”

Jonathan nods, straightening his stance and turning to the counter. He busies himself filling up Edgar’s kettle at the sink, relighting the burner, and placing the kettle on the stove. As he waits for the water to boil, Jonathan fills a strainer with loose leaves and listens to the soothing sound of the downpour outside.

He listens also to the sharp clink of silverware against china. Sneaking a subtle glance, Jonathan is relieved to observe Edgar digging into his meal with apparent gusto. Though he knows the man possesses a hearty constitution and is already accustomed to assuaging Jonathan’s thirst, Edgar had admittedly lost a significant amount of blood last night. While this act of exsanguination had been conducted with Edgar’s full consent and had been highly pleasurable for them both, Jonathan realizes now just how uneasy he is about the extent of Edgar’s symptoms.

Even before Jonathan had fallen asleep this morning — curled up protectively around the man’s trembling body, nose buried in Edgar’s sweat-damp hair — he had known his mortal partner would require particular care the following night. And Jonathan had acted accordingly, slipping out of bed earlier than he usually awoke these days and half-dressing in silence, then making his way downstairs to rifle through Edgar’s cabinets for ingredients rich in iron. Still, the severity of the man’s anemic response is troubling. Edgar’s easy acquiescence to Jonathan’s initial course of treatment goes a long way towards allaying his concerns, but, he tells himself, that doesn’t mean he shouldn’t remain vigilant.

Jonathan retrieves the kettle just as it begins to whistle. Turning off the burner, he slowly pours the hot water through the strainer into a waiting cup. As he allows the infusion to steep, he lifts the cup up to his nose and, eyes half-lidded in concentration, takes a long, experimental sniff. The tea is a fine Indian black, and its aroma is strong, baring just a hint of citrus and vanilla. The overall effect is robust and grounding — much like Edgar himself, Jonathan muses.

Opening his eyes, he catches Edgar’s inquisitive gaze and fields off any questions with a soft smile. Removing the strainer, he brings the tea over and sets it gently beside the man’s plate. “I’m afraid I can only permit you a single cup, considering its effect on vascular constriction and the current stress on your heart.” Jonathan huffs. “Really, I shouldn’t permit you any at all, but for the busy night ahead.”

Edgar chuckles, taking a rebellious sip of the tea. “That’s rather indulgent of you, doctor.”

“Yes, well.” Jonathan grabs the back of the only other chair at the kitchen table and drags it over to Edgar’s. The rims of the wooden seats knock against one another, and when Jonathan sits down, their thighs touch through the barest layers of fabric. Edgar immediately leans into him, gifting Jonathan with a taste of his living warmth. “I suppose I’m feeling indulgent at the moment.”

“I shan’t complain,” Edgar jests. He places a light kiss on Jonathan’s jaw — Jonathan can just feel it through the thick bristles of his beard — before returning his attention to his breakfast.

Jonathan hums, suddenly a tad shy. Lacking any other tasks with which to occupy himself, he retrieves the untouched orange from Edgar’s plate and begins to peel away the rind. The tough skin of the fruit parts easily beneath his hardened nails, soon revealing the succulent flesh inside. Its fragrance is sharp and acidic when it hits Jonathan’s nose, and its juices are slick and viscous as they drip down to coat the tips of his fingers.

As he discards chunks of rind into a neat pile on the table, Jonathan takes advantage of the intimacy of their seating arrangement to more closely inspect the bruises dotting Edgar’s throat and chest. As to what had caused such livid blemishes, there could be no doubt; though, Jonathan muses, the scattering of bite marks — oddly deep around the cuspids — might give an outside observer some pause. The locations of the marks on the man’s neck are low, however. Jonathan is fairly certain Edgar’s shirt collar will be able to cover them all.

He will miss the sight of those bruises later, Jonathan thinks. But there is something darkly exquisite as well in possessing exclusive knowledge of such evidence, so lurid and damning, hidden just beneath the surface of the good doctor’s gentlemanly attire.

Jonathan sighs, setting aside the last of the orange rind. Regardless of what avaricious feelings those marks might inspire in him, they are still contusions: the product of damaged capillaries and a sign of minor subdermal bleeding. They must at least ache, Jonathan reasons, if not flare with pain at the touch.

Compelled to inquire, he reluctantly breaks the comfortable silence that had settled between them. “How are you feeling?” When Edgar — about to take a bite of fried egg — pauses and raises an eyebrow, Jonathan clarifies, “Physically, I mean. Besides the usual symptoms of acute anemia, are you experiencing any pain?”

Edgar lowers his fork, a smile quirking his lips. “I am in _some_ discomfort,” he confirms. He shifts in his seat, and Jonathan is forcibly reminded of what other lascivious abuses he had inflicted on Edgar’s willing body in the morning dark. Edgar chuckles, possibly at the contrite expression that crosses Jonathan’s face. “I suppose I should be grateful that my armchair at the Pembroke is better padded than this one.”

“Do you need an analgesic?” Jonathan swiftly sets the peeled orange aside. “I should have a vial or two in the pocket of my coat — something that won’t conflict with the ferrous tartrate.” He starts to rise from his chair. “I can fetch a cushion for your seat as well.”

The sudden presence of Edgar’s hand on his arm, however, holds him in place. “Thank you, but I’m quite alright.”

“It’s no trouble, Edgar.” Jonathan tries to recall what other pertinent treatments he might have on hand. He hadn’t left the Pembroke the night before with his usual pharmaceutical kit; his mind at the time had been occupied with other, less practical thoughts. “I need to apply a topical antibiotic to those puncture wounds anyway.”

“Oh, these?” Edgar lightly touches his throat with his free hand. “They’re fairly shallow — well, most of them. They’ll heal up in no time.”

“They could still get infected,” Jonathan insists.

To his surprise, Edgar laughs. “There’s no need for all of this fuss!”

“There’s no need for you to suffer,” Jonathan objects. But when the man just grins at him with amusement — as if Jonathan’s concerns are absurd, rather than grounded in rational thought — a bestial snarl erupts unbidden from somewhere deep in his chest. “ _Let me take care of you, dammit!_ ”

Edgar’s jocularity evaporates in an instant. With it goes the rare atmosphere of warmth and safety and contentment, the fragile bubble of peace Jonathan had sought so desperately to preserve.

The sudden loss of the moment is strangely devastating. But before he can even begin to mourn its absence, he sees a glint of some insight in Edgar’s perceptive eyes.

“Oh, Jonathan,” Edgar murmurs. “My dearest Jonathan.”

Despite the tumult of his emotions, when Edgar tugs gently on his arm, Jonathan obeys. He sits back down and allows Edgar to capture his hands, damp and sticky with citrus juice, in both of his own.

“I’m afraid I’ve not made myself clear,” Edgar says. When Jonathan reluctantly returns his gaze, he continues, in the steady, factual tone of a lecturer. “You must believe me when I tell you that I am not suffering. Yes, I am sore, in several rather sensitive and inconvenient locations. And, yes, I am weak from the loss of blood. _However_ —” A hint of a smile twitches at the corner of Edgar’s lips. “—I trust I will not offend your sensibilities when I say this, Jonathan, but I am not… _displeased_ by the sensation.”

The admission doesn’t really come as a surprise. Even if Edgar didn’t respond with clear and vocal enthusiasm every time Jonathan sunk sharp fangs into his flesh, Jonathan would have suspected he found satisfaction in the experience of physical discomfort. No man — regardless of the strength of his academic curiosity or his personal affection for his partner — would so repeatedly subject himself to the searing agony of an Ekon’s bite unless he achieved some wanton pleasure from the pain.

“I… presumed as much,” Jonathan replies. He stares down at their clasped hands, carefully considering his words. “And I suppose I recognize the appeal.”

With rousing clarity, he recalls the sensation of Edgar’s fingers digging deep into the flesh of his arched back, each fingertip a hard point of delicious pressure that felt scalding against Jonathan’s cool skin. Under different circumstances, such an act might have resulted in a few days of mild bruising, but Jonathan’s body healed too quickly now for any injury to leave more than a fleeting impression.

The same could not be said of Edgar’s body, however. Feeling the need to clarify, Jonathan amends, “I understand to a certain extent, at least.”

Edgar stifles a disparaging snort. “I take it you don’t approve?”

“No,” Jonathan counters, “it’s more that I don’t consider it an ideal predilection for a mortal man to possess.”

This time, Edgar’s chuckle is genuine. “It’s not very conducive towards one’s continued survival, is it?”

Jonathan sighs. He lifts his gaze to peer seriously into his partner’s eyes. “You know as well as I do, Edgar, that the human body can only endure so much abuse before its various systems begin to shut down, irreversibly.”

“Anemic or not, I hardly think I’m at the point of death,” Edgar mildly remarks. He squeezes Jonathan’s hands, the smile on his face suddenly mischievous. “And unless I am terribly mistaken, you seemed to be rather enjoying yourself this morning — perhaps even more than I.”

A pang of unease twists in Jonathan’s chest. He feels his agitation overtake him as a growl rumbles deep in his throat. “I am aware of my complicity in this matter,” he manages to say through gritted teeth. “But if my assent to this… propensity of yours is discouraging you from accepting necessary medical care, then I’m afraid I must…” He trails off, tightening his grip on Edgar’s hands. What the best course of action would be, Jonathan isn’t sure, but he is resolved to intervene, even at the cost of his own pleasure and preferred source of sustenance.

For a moment, the room is uncomfortably silent; all Jonathan can hear are the muffled sounds of evening rain and the fluttering beat of his dear lover’s heart.

Then Edgar sighs. “Jonathan,” he says. At first, Jonathan doesn’t respond, but then Edgar says his name again, gentle yet firm. Jonathan allows the man to pin him with a pointed stare. “You do realize that I am just as culpable for my current condition as you are.”

Jonathan scoffs. “I scarcely think those marks on your neck were your own doing.”

“Not directly, perhaps. But would they be there if I didn’t want them to be?”

Jonathan opens his mouth, prepared to argue, only to close it a moment later when he finds he cannot.

When no answer is provided, Edgar gives a thoughtful hum, his smug countenance that of a doctor who has just had his disputed diagnosis confirmed. The expression, Jonathan thinks, is equally frustrating and endearing.

“Your concern for my welfare is touching, my dear,” Edgar says, “but this guilt-ridden brooding of yours is positively Byronic. I simply won’t allow you to accept all of the blame.”

Bringing their joined hands up to his mouth, Edgar presses a soft kiss to the tips of Jonathan’s fingers. His lips linger for a long and heady moment, and Jonathan feels the damp warmth of Edgar’s tongue as it lightly grazes his skin, no doubt catching the lingering taste of fragrant citrus. The sensation stalls Jonathan’s thoughts in their tracks; the idle nip of blunt teeth on his fingertips halts them entirely.

“Perhaps,” Jonathan eventually murmurs, fighting through the distraction, “we can come to some sort of compromise.”

Edgar’s eyes gleam with amusement. “I am open to the possibility.”

Reluctantly, Jonathan pulls their hands away from his partner’s lips. “I will cease my ‘brooding,’ as you call it,” he says, “so long as you consent to follow my instructions — _all of my instructions_ — concerning the continued treatment of your current ailments.”

“ _Hm_.” Edgar screws up his face, as if pretending for a moment to give the proposal arduous consideration. “I will admit, that is more than fair.” He chuckles. “I rather think I’m getting the more profitable end of the deal.”

“So,” Jonathan presses. “What do you say?”

“It seems I have little choice,” Edgar slyly quips, “but yours _is_ a generous offer.”

Jonathan snorts, vexed by his own affection for this aggravating man. “Edgar, do you accept?”

“Yes, my dear Jonathan, I accept.”

There could be no handshake to finalize the agreement, even if the formality was appropriate; their hands are already clasped too steadfastly together. But there are more enjoyable ways to seal a deal, Jonathan thinks as he leans in towards his partner’s face. Edgar easily meets him halfway, and the kiss they share is deep and certain and fond. It fills Jonathan with a relief so strong that it drowns out even the quiet pang of heartache he experiences at the faint taste of forsaken food in Edgar’s mouth.

When they finally pull away from each other, releasing both lips and hands, Jonathan finds that the delicate peace he’d thought destroyed was perhaps not lost at all. Around him, the kitchen remains wonderfully snug, insulated from the dark and the rain outside, and the smile on Edgar’s face is still affectionate and coy.

His face is also still too pale, Jonathan observes, for a man counted among the living.

“Now then,” Jonathan says, resuming his earlier professional tone, “I believe I prescribed you a healthy breakfast, to encourage the absorption of iron into your depleted bloodstream.” Retrieving the peeled orange he’d previously set aside, Jonathan pries off a single wedge of fruit, succulent and plump with juice.

Edgar chuckles, his gaze attentive as he watches Jonathan carefully break the wedge into two bite-sized pieces. “Whatever my doctor orders,” he says agreeably and opens his mouth without protest when Jonathan holds a chunk of orange up to his lips.

Feeding his incorrigible patient by hand is not a very efficient practice, Jonathan discovers, but it’s certainly a pleasurable one. Edgar doesn’t hesitate to wrap his lips around Jonathan’s fingertips, ostensibly to suck off the sour coating of juice, but his mouth is reluctant to let the fingers go. Still, he obediently accepts each of Jonathan’s restorative offerings, piece by piece, wedge by wedge.

They make it halfway through the orange before Jonathan grows too agitated to continue the game, yanking his fingers out from between Edgar’s teeth and roughly cupping the man’s stubbled jaw in his sticky hand. The kiss Jonathan inflicts on the soft skin beneath Edgar’s ear is a little savage, perhaps — the pointed tips of his cuspids might have been involved — but the raw sound it draws from his partner’s throat reassures him that a little savagery is always welcome and preferred.

Eventually, Jonathan allows Edgar to return to his breakfast proper. He amuses himself in the meantime by rubbing lazy circles into Edgar’s back through his dressing gown, supposedly under the guise of improving his circulation. To Jonathan’s chagrin, much of the food has grown lukewarm and the tea tepid in the wake of their heated discussion, but Edgar doesn’t complain as he makes his way through the rest of the eggs, most of the bacon, and another slice of fried tomato. When he finally lays down his fork, there is still plenty of food left behind, but Jonathan hadn’t expected Edgar to clean the plate. The man has consumed a decent portion, however, and as Jonathan surveys Edgar’s flushed complexion and the stabilized rhythm of his heart, he is gratified to confirm his initial treatment a success.

Jonathan is in the midst of rewarding Edgar for his exemplary compliance when the hourly chime of a clock sounds from somewhere down the hall. Jonathan drags his teeth away from Edgar’s bottom lip; in silent agreement, they grow still, listening and counting each distant ring.

When the chimes finally stop, Jonathan sighs and sits back, carding his fingers through Edgar’s hopelessly disheveled hair. “I suppose I must allow you to get dressed now,” he muses, “or you’ll never make it to that meeting with Tippets in time.”

Edgar laughs. “Neither of us will make it to the Pembroke at all at this rate.”

“If you’re trying to run me off before I remember your analgesic and tonic, I’m afraid it won’t work,” Jonathan remarks with a grin.

Edgar hums in apparent disappointment. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Dr. Reid.”

Jonathan chuckles. “Go ahead and get ready first,” he says. “I’ll clean up this mess.” Jonathan eyes the dirty dishes and utensils scattered across the table and counter without dread. This certainly isn’t the worst culinary disaster he’s ever been obliged to mop up, and he’s fully responsible for its existence anyway.

Edgar slowly stands up from his seat, not quite able to mask his subsequent wince. “I must say, Jonathan,” he declares, “I believe the state of satiation makes you positively domestic.” With one hand braced against the tabletop, Edgar leans over and deposits a light kiss right in the middle of Jonathan’s forehead.

Unable to repress his delight, Jonathan watches with doting eyes as Edgar shuffles to the kitchen doorway. When he calls out Edgar’s name, the man pauses in the threshold, however, turning back to face Jonathan with a curious glance.

“Thank you for consenting to my proposal. Your well-being is… essential for my peace of mind.” Jonathan tilts his head, observing Edgar’s form with a critical mien. “Besides, I need you swiftly returned to your usual good health.”

Edgar tugs idly at the lapels of his dressing gown, not quite covering up his bruise-speckled chest. “And why is that so important, my dear?”

“Because,” Jonathan says, baring his fangs with a wicked smile, “then we’ll be able to do this again."


End file.
